


Let Them Eat Cake

by Maeve_of_Winter



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Class Differences, Family Issues, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 21:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15034103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeve_of_Winter/pseuds/Maeve_of_Winter
Summary: FP Jones returns home from prison and discovers that the Keller kid has become something like a housekeeper for their family. He's less than thrilled by this development.





	Let Them Eat Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone reading! If you ever want to chat, here's my [Tumblr](http://maeve-of-winter.tumblr.com/). I love discussion and hearing people's thoughts, so feel free to submit ideas or just talk Riverdale.

When FP came home after getting out of Shankshaw, he thought the trailer looked a lot cleaner than it had than before he left, like it had been thoroughly scrubbed on both the inside and outside. Either it just looked really good after prison, or Jughead had made an effort to make it look nice for when he finally got out.

“Thanks for keeping up with the place,” FP told him, glancing around the tiny kitchenette. The sink was empty, with the dishes on a sturdy wooden drying rack, and the counter gleamed, free of crumbs or coffee rings. The light streaming in through the newly washed windows bounced off the shine of the freshly polished floor, which gave off the strong but not unpleasant scent of Pine-Sol.  

“No problem,” Jughead replied, going to the fridge and withdrawing a plate of coffee cake. 

FP noticed that not only had the fridge’s broken lightbulb had been replaced with a new one and the stains been cleaned from the walls, but it also now appeared well-stocked, much better than it ever had when he was living there on his own. During his time in prison, he’d worried that between trailer rent and gas for his motorcycle, Jughead might not have enough money left over for groceries. But he was relieved to see that the shelves were stocked with yogurts, apples, string cheese, and an assortment of other foods, plus a bunch of sturdy Rubbermaid containers that seemed to hold leftovers. 

A surge of pride went through FP; Jughead had done all right for himself, by himself, just like FP had been convinced he would. He accepted the slice of cake Jughead offered him, noting that it was homemade, and sent a grin his way. Maybe FP had actually managed to teach Jughead a thing or two on about getting by on his own; maybe he wasn’t entirely the deadbeat dad he had worried he’d become.

Much to FP’s appreciation, their home remained clean even when he himself didn’t have the time for casual housework. When he started picking up long shifts at Pop’s, he couldn’t manage much beyond stumbling home and collapsing onto the couch at the end of the day. And each time that he did, he noticed there had been some sort of welcome change to the trailer, whether it be that the carpet had been vacuumed, or that the curtains had been recently washed and were now free of their usual coating of lint and cobwebs, or that the furniture had been dusted and the faint scent of lemon furniture polish hung about the room. 

There were further new additions in the kitchen as well, he realized one day when he interrupted his rest on the couch to haul himself over to sink, intent on rising off his hands in an attempt to get rid of the lingering scent of burger grease that clung to his skin. When he did, he noted that a robust wooden cutting board, some folksy thing an idiot tourist from the city would shell out way too much cash for because they thought it was “quaint,” had replaced their scarred plastic one. Furthermore, a small green recycling bin now sat next to their trash, while new dish towels, featuring a cheerful pattern of red roosters and green ferns on a yellow background, sat neatly in a wicker basket atop the microwave. 

A part of FP was tempted to tell Jughead to stop buying as much as he was and just save his money, but a stronger part couldn’t help but be touched that Jughead was doing as much as he was to help him. So instead of discouraging him, he made sure to compliment Jughead when he got in later that night, fresh from working on the school paper with Betty.

“Just wanted to say thanks,” FP said, moving to the oven to extract the casserole, which he thought might have been enchilada-inspired, that he had found waiting in the fridge that evening. “For doing all of this.” He indicated the dish in his hands and then the kitchen. “It really does mean a lot to me, how much you’re helping out.

Jughead hesitated, opening his mouth to speak, but then closed it again before reopening it and giving an attempt at a casual nod. “Yeah, it’s, um, no trouble. Happy to help.”

FP glanced at him, half-wondering what he had been about to say, but then dismissed it from his mind as he heaped a pile of the food onto Jughead’s plate and then his own, too hungry to worry about his son’s reaction to his thanks. 

But a few weeks later, when he strode through the door of the trailer to find Kevin Keller standing at the stove, serenely stirring a pot of pasta, the reason for Jughead’s hesitation suddenly became clear.

“Oh, hi!” Kevin said brightly, giving FP a welcoming smile as the latter stopped in his tracks by the door, dumbfounded at the sight of the sheriff’s son cooking dinner in his kitchen. “Didn’t expect you back so early, but everything will be ready in just a little bit.”

Still gaping, FP barely managed to force out a question. “What are you doing in my house?”

Kevin’s smile dimmed significantly. “Oh. You don’t know, then?”

“Know what?” FP demanded, only to hear Jughead climbing up the steps behind him. He stepped aside so Jughead could enter, then jabbed a finger in Kevin’s direction. “Did you know about this?”

Jughead tensed, but his voice was calm when he spoke. “Dad, you’ve met Kevin. He’s been coming over to help me out for a while now. I guess he’s cooking for us at the moment.” He looked at Kevin. “What are you making for us tonight, Kev?”

“Braised chicken with sauteed mushrooms served over a bed of gnocchi,” Kevin said, pride in his voice even as he glanced anxiously at FP.

“Sounds terrific,” Jughead said firmly, sending a warning look at FP. “Thank you so much.”

Reasoning that there was no point in potentially pissing off both his son and the person who was making them food, FP slouched into a chair at the table and glowered. Jughead glowered back at him, only stopping to smile at Kevin when he brought over plates piled with gnocchi, chicken, and parmesan roasted broccoli to them like he was some sort of waiter.

“Thank you, Kevin,” Jughead said warmly. “Would you like to join us?”

FP tossed a dark look at Jughead and then Kevin, but he needn’t have bothered; Kevin was already shaking his head.

“Thanks for the invite,” he said. “But my dad’s finishing his shift early so we can eat together. But I’ll take your laundry, if that’s all right.”

Jughead pointed to a laundry basket by the door. “Right over there. And thanks again.”

Kevin gave Jughead a smile and a wave before grabbing the basket and walking out the door, though he was careful not to look at FP throughout any of it.

Gritting his teeth, FP waited until he heard the engine of Kevin’s truck start before laying into Jughead. “Tom Keller’s kid?! Are goddamn joking with me, Jug?” he threw his hands up into the air, utterly exasperated. “What the hell was he doing at our house?”

Jughead set his jaw. “Once you got sent to jail, Kevin helped me clean up the trailer after his dad’s deputies tore it apart, and then he offered to stop by a couple of times a week to help me out. I accepted his help.”

“And he does your laundry?” FP shook his head in disgust. “You’re sixteen years old! Can’t you put your own clothes in the washing machine?”

“I can,” Jughead responded tightly. “I just don’t always have the money for the laundromat.”

FP snorted. “Well, if that’s true, I’m guessing you also don’t have the money for those towels or any of that food in the fridge.” He let out bitter laugh. “I swear to God, if we’ve been living off of Keller’s charity for the past couple of weeks—”

“Kevin’s grandparents own most of the grocery stores in the county,” Jughead informed him. “He’s able to get me a lot of stuff that can’t be sold at the store due to overstock or shipping damages and would just go to waste otherwise. The rest of it is at a high discount.” He stared hard at FP. “While you were in Shankshaw, I had to rely on a bunch of other people for help. And even now that you’re out, we still need their help in some ways. I’m not going to reject Kevin just because I don’t like his father. And you know why? You know why, Dad?” Anger seeped into Jughead’s carefully controlled tone. “Because we literally cannot afford to turn him down. I’ve checked the records, and we owe months of back rent on this place. So if one of my friends wants to buy us bread, milk, and eggs and make dinner for us so you have a hot meal to come home after a long day and do our laundry so we have clean clothes to wear? I’ll accept that for now. I’m not completely okay with it, but I’ll accept it.”  

“ ‘Our laundry’?” FP echoed, ignoring all else that Jughead had said. “He’s using Keller’s washing machine to wash  _ my _ clothes?”

“Well, I suggested he go down to Sweetwater River and hand-wash them in the current there, but he didn’t seem too keen on that idea,” Jughead snarked. “Seriously, Dad, is it really that bad to have someone cleaning our house for us?”

“Has it occurred to you that he’s spying on us for his old man?” FP asked bluntly.

“Has it occured to you there’s other ways to do that other than scrubbing the bike grease stains out of my shirts?” Jughead fired back. “And even if he is, it’s still better than the alternative. If your parole officer comes around and finds this place looking like a total wreck more than a few times, I’m likely to get thrown back into foster care and never be let back into your custody. If Kevin coming over to clean lets us avoid a social services call, then I don’t care if he’s reporting to Cthulu himself.”

Opening his mouth, FP was about to retort, but he snapped his jaw closed when he saw the sense of Jughead’s reply. Even with as much bad blood as there was between himself and Tom Keller, he was willing to put up with his son if it meant Jughead got to stay with him.

“Fine,” FP ground out, stabbing a piece of gnocchi with his fork. “I suppose I can deal with him. But I still don’t want him around.”

He took a bite of the gnocchi, and he had to admit that as unhappy as he was about accepting help from a Keller, the kid did make some damn delicious food.

* * *

Reluctant as he was, FP allowed Kevin to continue his visits to the trailer, but he imposed a new rule as a precaution: either he or Jughead had to be there with Kevin to supervise.

Jughead had rolled his eyes when FP laid down the law, but F.P.’s trailer, F.P.’s rules, and he wasn’t about to let Keller’s kid have free reign of the place. But perhaps in an attempt to punish him, Jughead decided to leave it to FP to stay stay with Kevin at the trailer most of the time. Which was how FP found himself slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, threading out a broken lace on one of his boots to replace it with a fresh one and unenthusiastically watching Kevin chop up a bunch of fruit for a fruit salad.

There was only silence between them, which wasn’t a bad thing, as far as FP was concerned. He still had his suspicions about the kid and exactly what he wanted from them and what he could possibly be getting out of picking up after them. But when FP finished with his task and set down the muddy boot to wash the dirt off of his hands in the sink, he brushed past Kevin and noticed the juicy strawberries he was now slicing in half. They looked damn good, so the moment he finished rinsing the grime from his hands, he reached out and snagged one, popping it into his mouth without thinking twice.

When he did, Kevin sent a surprised glance his way, and though he was loathe to be chastised in his own home, FP couldn’t help but feel slightly sheepish.

“Sorry,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.

But Kevin didn’t appear to mind, instead just giving him a smile. “It’s all right, FP. This food is here for you to eat, after all.” He paused briefly to dump the sliced strawberries in with the rest of the fruit. “You like strawberries, then?”

“Yeah, they’re my favorite,” FP replied, deciding a little bit of conversation wouldn’t hurt anyone. “Jug’s, too.” While he might not have thought it was a good idea to talk to Kevin, he couldn’t see how the kid could possibly use his or his son’s fruit preferences against them.

And evidently, the kid wasn’t planning to, because the next time he stopped by, he brought with him a massive strawberry cake. It was one of those fancy types that was piled with layers of jam and cream and was ringed with ladyfingers and would sit in the prime spot of the bakery display case at that one hoity-toity grocery store over on the Northside. 

One time, FP had stopped in there when Jughead had been maybe five or six, and Jughead had pressed his small face against the glass window as he stared one of the cakes in wonder. Then he’d spent the rest of the trip begging FP to buy one for the family’s dessert that night, far too young to realize that his parents were in absolutely no position to afford such a luxury, small as it may have seemed to anyone else.

Well, Jughead might not have been able to get his cake then, but it seemed like he certainly had one now.

“Damn, look at that thing,” FP remarked when Kevin carefully carried it into the house.

“Thought you and Jughead might like it. Go ahead and try some,” Kevin said encouragingly.

FP didn’t need to be told twice and extracted a plate, fork, and knife. “This something else your grandparents couldn’t sell at one of their stores?” he asked as he cut himself a generous slice.

“What?” Kevin halted in the middle of taking out the garbage to cast him a quizzical look. “What does  _ that  _ mean?”

FP paused in the middle of lifting the piece of cake onto his plate. “You know, the food and stuff you’ve been getting for Jughead. Damaged goods that weren’t fit to sell, right?”

“Oh,” Kevin said lamely, a flush creeping into his cheeks. “Yes, th-that’s, er, that’s right.”

A realization dawned in FP’s mind, and he eyed Kevin knowingly as he laid the cake onto the plate and picked it up. “None of that stuff was damaged at all, was it?” he asked conversationally, already certain of the answer.

Kevin hesitated for a moment before responding. “No,” he said shamefacedly. “I knew that Jughead was struggling for money and needed to eat, but he would never take charity. So, I told him the food would just go to waste otherwise. That way, he wouldn’t argue about accepting or feel embarrassed about it.”

Absorbing the kid’s words, FP blew out a long breath. While he was admittedly wounded at the knowledge that they’d been living off of food paid for in full by the Keller family, he couldn’t help but feel grateful in spite of it. Not gratitude at the Keller family in general, but just gratitude that one of Jughead’s friends cared so much about him that he would not only go out of his way to feed him but also look out for his self-esteem at the same time.

So FP just shrugged and said, “Jughead doesn’t ever have to know.” Privately, though, he vowed to make sure that they had enough money for groceries next time, no matter what he had to give up in the meantime to make sure they had the spare cash.

Still, he guessed that Kevin still deserved some kind of thanks for his generosity, so he gestured to the enormous cake. “You want some of this?”

“Oh, no thanks,” Kevin said politely, lifting up the full trash bag and moving toward the door.

“You sure?” FP persisted.

Kevin nodded as he went outside. “Definitely. I appreciate you asking, but I’m allergic to strawberries.”

The response made FP pause in the middle of a bite of his cake, and he was still standing there, blinking, as Kevin entered the trailer again, this time carrying a basket of folded laundry, which he set down by the couch.

“Well, that’s about it for me,” he said briskly. He turned to FP. “Is there anything you need before I go, Mr. Jones?”

In that moment, FP didn’t quite know what to say. He’d never considered himself especially eloquent, preferring instead to just be as blunt and brash as needed, and he was left struggling to convey the depth of his thanks to someone who he never expected to truly care about any of their family. 

“Just . . .” he trailed off, still unable to get the right words off of his tongue, so he settled for reaching out and giving Kevin’s shoulder a squeeze. “You’re all right, kid,” he said gruffly. “I appreciate all you’ve done for us. I owe you.”

“You don’t,” Kevin said gently. “We all need help sometimes. And it shouldn’t be a burden for the rest of us to give it.” He looked at FP steadily. “You’re a good man, Mr. Jones. Me coming over here every so often doesn’t change that.”

With that, he gave FP another smile and took his leave, and for what was perhaps the first time in his life, FP couldn’t resist a surge of affection for one of the Keller family.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone reading! If you ever want to chat, here's my [Tumblr](http://maeve-of-winter.tumblr.com/). I love discussion and hearing people's thoughts, so feel free to submit ideas or just talk Riverdale.


End file.
